Orion Lysander - Preview -
by Potter's Tardis
Summary: A preview of my Orion Lysander series NOW A FULL STORY
1. Chapter 1

_Orion Lysander_

_Preview_

"Run!" That was the word that triggered it all. The battle raged around him. Bodies were splattered on the ground whilst bullets and spells flew passed his hair. Orion Mydrin Lysander ran as fast as he could. His piercing blue eyes glowing with determination.

"AVADA KEDAVRA"

"EXPELLIARMUS "

Two beams of light collided in mid-air causing the battle around the two combatants to stop. A raven haired young man with emerald eyes held his holly wand in front of him like a lifeline. A few meters away, a bold man in black robes, pale skin and blood red eyes held his yew wand like a prize.

"_Harry!"_ Orion shouted into his best friends mind a little over a mile away. He needed to get to him. They had a plan but he had to be there.

'_There's nothing for it then is there' _the lord of the light thought to himself. With a sudden stop, Orion disappeared in a flash of light only to reaper outside of the dome where Harry Potter, Boy-Who-lived, Chosen One was duelling Tom Riddle, A.K.A Lord Voldemort. The beams of green and red were in the dead centre of the dome. However, the last Lysander could see Harry tiring and Voldemort had a victorious smile upon his paper white face.

"I'm sorry…" Orion whispered as he raised his hand towards Voldemort. Thinking the ancient incantation, a beam of pure white shot towards the dark lord. It consumed both Orion and said maniac before both blew up to the land of the living…


	2. 1911 - The Zoo

Chapter 1: 1911

The Zoo

It was 1912, 7 years before the battle of Hogwarts.

Young Harry Potter awoke from a strange dream. It was that of a flying motorbike.

He got up from his mattress and his green eyes scanned his cupboard looking for his glasses.

"Boy! Get up! Dudders wants a big breakfast for his special day! "Screeched his aunt.

Slowly putting on his –whale-of-a-cousins- hand me downs, Harry got out of his cupboard, went to the kitchen and proceeded to make breakfast for his cousin and uncle.

Vernon Dursley was a very fat man on the best of days. He had a moustache and had a habit of beating Harry up.

"Comb your hair." Barked Harry's uncle as he came into the white kitchen, obviously referring to the 10 year olds' mop of unruly, jet black hair which stock up in every possible direction.

Of course, it wouldn't do any good though…

Every time he tried to comb his hair it wouldn't do any good. The numerous times he had had it cut at the barbers was uncountable.

Every time he did by the time he got back _home (_though he refused to call it that) it was back to normal. His aunt claimed that he didn't go to them one day so cut it herself. When she was done he was almost balled. (Dudley had laughed himself silly!)

He had stayed up all that night in his cupboard dreading about what would happen in school the next day. He was always bullied about his baggy clothes that he had to wear, if he had hair THAT bad then he would be bullied to the end of the Earth.

That's why, it had been such a welcome surprise the next day when his hair was back to _normal_. He had been punished but as far as he was concerned it had been worth it to see the look on his face.

It hadn't been the only weird thing to happen to Harry. In fact, once he had turned his teachers wig blue!

Once, he had been running from Dudley and his gang and he had appeared on the school roof!

Anyway, his unruly hair wasn't the only trademark that defined him, in fact it wasn't his emerald green eyes. The truth is that his most eye catching feature was the lightning bolt shaped scar above his right eye.

The Dursleys told him that he had gotten it in the car crash when his parents died. Harry, however, doubted that it was the truth…

When he was thinking exceptionally hard, he remembered a flash of bright green light and a white hot pain in his for head.

He deduced that the pain was from the crash however where the green light came from was anyone's guess as far as he was concerned.

The door opened and in came his as-fat-as-a-whale cousin. He had a non-existent neck and a mop of blond hair.

After an argument over how many presents Dudley got there was a banging on the door and in came Dudley's best_ friend _(he held people whilst Dudley hit them continuously) pierce. He had a rat like face and was skinny (but nowhere near as skinny as Harry.)

"PIERCE!" Dudley howled in delight. They shared a brotherly embrace whilst Petunia went to get the ringing phone. A few seconds face, Harry's aunt came through the door with a horror struck face which DEFINETLY didn't match her skinny neck.

"Bad news Vernon, she's broke her leg. She can't take him." She pronounced.

Harry couldn't help the wide smile which appeared on his face. Every year on the whale's birthday: Dudley, Vernon, Petunia and one of Dudley's friends would go out for the day and do something fun whilst Harry would be given to Mrs Figg and spend the day in her cabbage smelling house.

To be honest, Harry would do pretty much everything to get out of being told about 'miss pretty.'

(A/N I made that name up)

After a lot of arguing, debating and pretty much pretending that he wasn't in the room, it was decided that Harry would be accompanying them as long as he didn't break uncle Vernon's new company car.


	3. 1911 - The Vanishing Glass

Chapter 2:

The Vanishing Glass

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favourite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles. "... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It was flying."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a moustache: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

I know they don't," said Harry. "It was only a dream."

But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon - they seemed to think he might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn't blond.

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favourite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knicker-bocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first.

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to last.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can - but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake.

He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself – no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's.

It winked.

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:

"I get that all the time.

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry

peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on:

This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see - so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened - one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with

howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come... Thanksss, amigo."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you,

Harry?"

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go - cupboard - stay - no meals," before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food. He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember being in the car when his parents had died.


	4. 1911 - Letters From No-one

Chapter 3:

Letters From No-one

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his  
longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard  
again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his  
new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time  
out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet  
Drive on her crutches.  
Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang,  
who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and  
Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and  
stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite  
happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting.  
This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house,  
wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he  
could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off  
to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be  
with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private  
school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the  
other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley  
thought this was very funny.  
"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,"  
he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"  
"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as  
horrible as your head down it - it might be sick." Then he ran, before  
Dudley could work out what he'd said.  
One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings  
uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn 't as bad as  
usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats,  
and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch  
television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though  
she'd had it for several years.  
That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in  
his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange  
knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried  
knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't  
looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.  
As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said  
gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst  
into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he  
looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He  
thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to  
laugh.  
There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry  
went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in  
the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like  
dirty rags swimming in gray water.  
"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always  
did if he dared to ask a question.  
"Your new school uniform," she said.  
Harry looked in the bowl again.  
"Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."  
"DotA be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old  
things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've  
finished."  
Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat  
down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look  
on his first day at Stonewall High - like he was wearing bits of old  
elephant skin, probably.  
Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the  
smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as  
usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere,  
on the table.  
They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the  
doormat.  
"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.  
"Make Harry get it."  
"Get the mail, Harry."  
"Make Dudley get it."  
"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."  
Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things  
lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was  
vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a  
bill, and - a letter for Harry.  
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant  
elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who  
would? He had no friends, no other relatives - he didn't belong to the  
library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet  
here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:  
Mr. H. Potter  
The Cupboard under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey  
The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the  
address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.  
Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax  
seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake  
surrounding a large letter H.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you  
doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.  
Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed  
Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to  
open the yellow envelope.  
Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over  
the postcard.  
"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk. -."  
"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"  
Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the  
same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of  
his hand by Uncle Vernon.  
"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.  
"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open  
with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster  
than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds  
it was the grayish white of old porridge.  
"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.  
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it  
high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first  
line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her  
throat and made a choking noise.  
"Vernon! Oh my goodness - Vernon!"  
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and  
Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He  
gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.  
"I want to read that letter," he said loudly. want to read it," said  
Harry furiously, "as it's mine."  
"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back  
inside its envelope.  
Harry didn't move.  
I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.  
"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.  
"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the  
scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the  
kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but  
silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry,  
his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at  
the crack between door and floor.  
"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the  
address - how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think  
they're watching the house?"  
"Watching - spying - might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon  
wildly.  
"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't  
want -"  
Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the  
kitchen.  
"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an  
answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything...  
"But -"  
"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took  
him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"  
That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd  
never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.  
"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed  
through the door. "Who's writing to me?"  
"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly.  
"I have burned it."  
"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."  
"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the  
ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a  
smile, which looked quite painful.  
"Er - yes, Harry - about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been  
thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might  
be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.  
"Why?" said Harry.  
"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs,  
now."  
The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt  
Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one  
where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things  
that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip  
upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He  
sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was  
broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working  
tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the  
corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot  
through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large  
birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school  
for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent  
because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They  
were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been  
touched.  
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don't  
want him in there... I need that room... make him get out..."  
Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given  
anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with  
that letter than up here without it.  
Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in  
shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been  
sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the  
greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was  
thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the  
letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each  
other darkly.  
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice  
to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with  
his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's  
another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -'"  
With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the  
hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the  
ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact  
that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a  
minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the  
Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with  
Harry's letter clutched in his hand.  
"Go to your cupboard - I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry.  
"Dudley - go - just go."  
Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out  
of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first  
letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure  
they didn't fail. He had a plan.  
The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry  
turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the  
Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.  
He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and  
get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept  
across the dark hall toward the front door -  
Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on  
the doormat - something alive!  
Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the  
big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been  
lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making  
sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He  
shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make  
a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the  
time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap.  
Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.  
I want -" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into  
pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that day. He  
stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.  
"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if  
they can't deliver them they'll just give up."  
"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."  
"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not  
like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the  
piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.  
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they  
couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door,  
slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small  
window in the downstairs bathroom.  
Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got  
out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and  
back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips"  
as he worked, and jumped at small noises.  
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to  
Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each  
of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt  
Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious  
telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone  
to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.  
"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in  
amazement.  
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking  
tired and rather ill, but happy.  
"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade  
on his newspapers, "no damn letters today -"  
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught  
him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty  
letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys  
ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.  
"Out! OUT!"  
Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall.  
When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their  
faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters  
still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.  
"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling  
great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back  
here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some  
clothes. No arguments!"  
He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared  
argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the  
boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway.  
Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the  
head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and  
computer in his sports bag.  
They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they  
were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and  
drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em  
off," he would mutter whenever he did this.  
They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was  
howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd  
missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone  
so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.  
Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the  
outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds  
and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on  
the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and  
wondering...  
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for  
breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the  
hotel came over to their table.  
"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred  
of these at the front desk."  
She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:  
Mr. H. Potter  
Room 17  
Railview Hotel  
Cokeworth  
Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out  
of the way. The woman stared.  
"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following  
her from the dining room.  
Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested  
timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly  
what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the  
middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in  
the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle  
of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of  
a multilevel parking garage.  
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that  
afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside  
the car, and disappeared.  
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley  
sniveled.  
"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I  
want to stay somewhere with a television. "  
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday - and you  
could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of  
television - then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of  
course, his birthdays were never exactly fun - last year, the Dursleys  
had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.  
Still, you weren't eleven every day.  
Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long,  
thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd  
bought.  
"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"  
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what  
looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was  
the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was  
certain, there was no television in there.  
"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his  
hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his  
boat!"  
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather  
wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below  
them.  
"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"  
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their  
necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like  
hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding,  
led the way to the broken-down house.  
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind  
whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was  
damp and empty. There were only two rooms.  
Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four  
bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked  
and shriveled up.  
"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully.  
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance  
of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately  
agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.  
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the  
high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the  
filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second  
room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle  
Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find  
the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest,  
most ragged blanket.  
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry  
couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable,  
his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the  
low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of  
Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat  
wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and  
watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would  
remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.  
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the  
roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.  
Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of  
letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.  
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like  
that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was  
the rock crumbling into the sea?  
One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...  
nine - maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him - three... two...  
one...  
BOOM.  
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the  
door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.


End file.
